


tell you all the things i’ve been missing

by BB_Glitz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alphonso "Mack" Mackenzie - Freeform, Angst, Bored Businessman T'Challa, Brief Mention of Suicide, Bucky Barnes is just a cute flirty baker, Fluff, Literature Professor Nick Fury, M/M, Magical Realism, More Pining, More plot, POV Character of Color, Sensual Themes, T'chucky - Freeform, Talk of mental illness, fluff is my life, stranger than fiction AU, wpweekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BB_Glitz/pseuds/BB_Glitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T'Challa hears things. </p><p>He's aware that the usual voice is his consciousness. </p><p>This is something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fangedangel (clockworkqueen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkqueen/gifts), [azande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azande/gifts).



> Okay, so the voice of the omniscient narrator is Alfre Woodard's character from Captain America Civil War. 
> 
> I wanted to give a larger voice to characters of color in this fandom. More importantly, I wanted to explore the experience of black people dealing with mental illness and grief. 
> 
> I have depression myself, so this is really important to me. 
> 
> Anyway, I enjoyed writing this so far. I have the first 3 chapters already written but I'm shy. Constructive criticism is welcome but sandwich it with praise or things you liked. Enjoy.
> 
> Title taken from the song "Jewels & Sapphires" by Owl Eyes

He wakes a few seconds before the 4 shutters into a 5 on his vintage alarm clock.

4:45.

T’Challa promptly rolls out of bed. His palm smooths the coverlet with measured care. After a brief stretch, he takes 25 steps to the bathroom. 

He goes through a routine that remains unchanged in the seven years since his father’s violent departure. 

Stables of numbers run through his mind at all hours. 

The previous night’s stock figures. Finance statistics in a stale report. Quarterly revenue projections. Account balances from his CPA. 

Most important of all, T’Challa developed a habit of counting during the mundane happenings of his day. 

He numbers the strokes of the boar bristle brush gliding over his close cropped hair. T’Challa counts his steps from his bedroom to the kitchen where he plucked one granny smith apple from the metal bowl. 

Tabulations became a grounding mantra in the shadow of his grief. 

T’Challa found that counting filled the silence no longer rich with his father’s voice during their daily calls. Yet, he finds comfort in the weight of his father’s watch.

 

\-----------

More silence greets T’Challa as he strides through the hallways at work. 

‘81, 82, 83…’

The sudden presence of a snobbish drawl mangling his name interrupts the stream of figures. 

T’Challa welcomes his employees to come to him when necessary. His door is actually open. 

However, four hours of sleep stripped bare of any restfulness have left him raw and in no mood for this. 

T’Challa could send him away with a frigid glare. A glare reserved for this man alone. 

Instead, he sighs heavily and greets him. 

“Sir,” Ericson begins, “have you read through the prop? For the retail deal?” 

T’Challa strolls as if he hasn’t heard him. He uses stony silence as a humbling tactic that offers mixed results. 

“I have,” he answers. 

T’Challa leaves Ericson gaping with a phony smile as the glass door shuts immediately after him. 

‘98, 99, 100, 101…’ he counts as he paces in his office while checking his email. As always, an infinite wave of emails greet him as he thumbs through his tablet. 

T’Challa continues to count but his loneliness remains. 

\-----------

This day passes almost identically like the one before it. 

_T’Challa brushes his hair with vigor…_

T’Challa startles without movement. 

_T’Challa brushes his hair with vigor unneeded for such a task._

“Hello,” he says to the ceiling of his bathroom. 

He continues, but he is tempted to move up his therapy appointment. 

The warm, feminine voice filters through his head as he picks up his apple. The Voice follows him through the walk to his office. It recounts how bored he is in the weekly meeting. 

_T’Challa misses the question from the Managing Director of Operations._

“Of course I did. I cannot hear,” he whispers. 

“What was that sir?” 

Twelve pairs of eyes narrowed in concern pin him down. 

“I will survey the area myself. I need to see where my investment will go,” T’Challa answered. 

He has no intention of sacrificing people’s livelihoods in the name of a diversified portfolio. 

T’Challa decides to fire the six men who created this proposition. He will not tarnish his father’s legacy with gentrification. 

Ericson will have to stay. 

_T’Challa thought him an asshole, but a loyal and hardworking asshole._

The last thought almost curled his lips into a smile. Almost. 

T’Challa shakes his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it's not clear, the italicized words are from The Voice. POV alternates. Let me know if it reads weird.

_T’Challa was greatly troubled._

_T’Challa glared at the linguine. But the linguine offered no fresh insight. He let out an irritated scoff that was definitely out of place._

His impassive-turned-annoyed face during his friend’s recounting of a brilliant rescue stopped James short. 

_Retired Colonel James Rupert Rhodes stroked his chin as he searched T’Challa’s face._

“What’s going on with you man?” Rhodey asks.

“Nothing. I am fine,” T’Challa answers.

“Hmm. Fine. Then, why are you interrogating your pasta?” Rhodey offers. 

T’Challa looked lost. He longed to pour out some of his worries, but he feared the reaction he would receive. 

“I’m being followed,” T’Challa whispers. 

“How are you being followed? You’re not moving,” Rhodey says.

_Rhodey looked around the deserted restaurant._

_T’Challa owns the fusion eatery, which he closes to have private meals with friends or lovers. If there were lovers to speak of._

_T’Challa glares at the ceiling._

T’Challa resents the last comment. 

_T’Challa swears that he dates regularly. There was the Google programmer. The Nigerian supermodel. The Air Force pararescue._

_The last was his boyfriend of eight months. He remains fond of Sam Wilson._

_However, these other dates happened three years ago._

He bristles at the judgmental tone of The Voice. 

T’Challa is silent for too long because Rhodey waves his hand in front of his face. 

“I’m being followed by a woman’s voice. She’s narrating,” T’Challa says slowly.

“You were staring into space. What is she narrating?” Rhodey says. 

“No, no. Listen,” T’Challa says. 

_T’Challa twirls the now cold linguine on the fork._

“She says I’m twirling the pasta,” T’Challa says.

“Yeah...that’s what people do,” Rhodey replies. 

“Never mind,” T’Challa says. 

T’Challa refuses to be resigned to his frustration. 

\------------

A faded Dodgers t-shirt clings to T’Challa in the late spring heat. He emerges from the subway and the aroma hits him.

The slight sweetness of buttery bread seems stronger in the heat. 

He enters the storefront with the peeling pale blue paint and walks to the counter. 

T’Challa offers a blinding smile to the tall man behind the counter that usually disarms the stoniest of people, yet this man only scowls deeper. 

“No offense man, but we don’t want your money,” the man says. 

“I just wanted to know what’s good,” T’Challa says. 

“Yeah. Any other day, I’d say try the Mulato chile quiche, but not to you,” the man says. 

T’Challa swears that the you was delivered with disdain. He finds himself confused. 

A dark-haired man comes into view. He pins T’Challa with a pointed glare. 

“It’s all right Mack. Give the man his quiche,” he says. 

“But you need to take your money elsewhere,” the man finishes. 

“I am afraid I do not understand,” T’Challa says. 

The dark-haired man lets out a bitter laugh. 

“Nope, you wouldn’t,” the dark-haired man finishes.

The tall man speaks again in a lower voice that fills T’Challa with dread.

“You see, you suits come around about once or twice a month, tryin’ to be friendly. But we’re not selling. Go ruin some other neighborhood,” Mack says. 

Immediately, everything becomes clear. T’Challa exchanges looks with the men behind the counter. 

“I’m---” 

“Yeah, we know who you are,” the dark-haired man says.

'Bucky is almost tickled. The richest man in the world thought he could blend in. Here of all places.' 

“Is there somewhere else we could talk?” T’Challa offers. 

“JB, I don’t have time for this,” Mack says as he walks off.

_James Buchanan Barnes opened this bakery with childhood friend Alphonso “Mack” Mackenzie. A charming thought to a man who practically inherited the world and still felt like he had nothing._

_No, not exactly nothing, as he thought of Shuri’s smiling face._

_T’Challa tries to come back to the present. However, he’s distracted by the silvery-blue eyes sizing him up._

“Actually, let’s talk about this right here,” JB says as he approaches. 

“My team tells me that your business is profitable, but in deep debt,” T’Challa says. 

“Yeah, so? What’s it to you? Are you gonna get to a point ‘cause the lunch rush is coming,” JB says defensively.

“I do not have the same intentions as the suits who approached you. I can help you,” T’Challa says. 

Bucky scoffs. 

_As he searches T’Challa’s face for the lie, a lock of hair falls below his brow. It catches the spring light and T’Challa longs to brush it back behind his ear._

_Suddenly, T’Challa feels warmth spread across his skin that has nothing to do with the weather._

_He stumbles over his next words._

“P-perhaps, w-we could have a meeting and discuss intentions when things are less heated,” T’Challa gets out. 

_James smiles knowingly. He’s a man who’s aware of all of his gifts._

“Let me tell you what, I’ll call you and we’ll set something up,” JB says.

T’Challa hovered near the counter. 

_He wasn’t prone to fantasy, especially about potential business partners._

“Not now,” T’Challa implored. 

“What?” JB asked. 

“Huh? Nothing,” T’Challa answers. 

He instantly feels silly. 

_T’Challa groaned._

_But he couldn’t stop the heat of arousal flowing through him._

_Arms with tightly corded muscles set down baking sheets covered in tarts. T’Challa watches him lick syrup from his long, slightly thick fingers. Rosy lips linger on the pad of one finger as if chasing the sweetness._

_Eyes traced the scar that bisected his left shoulder. T’Challa himself carried no scars. He was intrigued. He longed to map the rough pink skin with his tongue._

_Of course, thoughts of lips and tongues brought other things to mind. T’Challa felt his face heat up._

“Do you need something? ‘Cause you’re staring,” James says.

_Even more embarrassed, T’Challa anxiously pats his pockets hoping to find business cards._

T’Challa is rarely flustered. He has to get rid of The Voice. 

He places the card on the counter. The heavy black stock with engraved silver font simply reads ‘W Industries’.

James appraises the card. He flicks his gaze up to regard T’Challa once more before he actually smiles and turns back to his pastries. 

_T’Challa’s mood sours after he leaves the bakery. He turns his face toward the sky and curses more than he has in his thirty-something years of life._

_He gets slanted looks from passerby._

_Of course, he spends the subway ride home fuming._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the suicide bits come in. Stay safe everyone.   
> Enjoy.

Miriam Spencer took a drag of the cigarette she was not supposed to be smoking. 

But they can’t kill you if you’re already dead. 

She gazed out at the skyline without really looking as she carded her hand through the wind.

Then, she turned her focus to the shop owner hosing down the sidewalk several stories below. She took another drag. 

Her face was free of expression and unchanged in the time since she buried Charlie. She flicked off the ashes of her cigarette and stamped it out on her palm. Miriam dropped the butt. 

She set a long gaze into the unseen distance and simply stepped off the ledge.

.

.

.

.

.

Only, she was standing precariously on the edge of the spare black desk in her loft.

‘How to kill a grieving, emotionally stunted CEO?’ Miriam wondered. 

A strawberry blonde woman in a crisp navy suit entered the doorway. 

“Am I interrupting something?” the woman asked dubiously. 

“Yes,” Miriam answered in a clipped tone. 

“Hi, I’m Pepper Potts, the assistant---”

“The spy,” Miriam interjected. 

“I’m the assistant your publishers hired. I provide the same services as a secretary.” Pepper finished.

“I don’t need a secretary,” Miriam shot back. 

“I’ll find something to do. I’ll be here if you need me,” Pepper says.

“I’ll get away from the window. Don’t want the publishing snipers to take me out for not meeting deadline,” Miriam says. 

“Do you think you won’t meet your deadline?” Pepper asks. 

Miriam remains silent. 

“What do you think of leaping off a building?” Miriam asks.

“I don’t think of leaping off buildings,” Pepper says with finality. 

Miriam switches gears. 

“There’s this famous photo called ‘The Leaper’. Legs twisted. Mangled car beneath her. She committed suicide, yet her face is so serene,” Miriam says. 

The women regard each other. Miriam regards her with distrust while Pepper looks on patiently. 

“If you can’t help me with killing a man, then you need to be on your way,” Miriam says. 

Miriam swigs the liquor from the bottle in the corner. 

“I understand your dilemma,” Pepper says. 

“As much as I would like to, I can’t just throw T’Challa off a building,” Miriam says. 

“Well, Ms. Spencer, I’ve been an author's’ assistant for 10 years. I’ve helped over 20 authors finish over 35 books. I’ve never missed a deadline or gone back to the publisher to ask for more time,” Pepper says. 

Miriam sighs and rolls her eyes at the young white woman before her rattling off her CV.   
She likes her spirit. Publishing can grind you down after a decade. 

“Deadlines and publishing snipers aside, I will gladly and efficiently help you kill T’Challa,” Pepper says. 

\------------

 

T’Challa sits before his psychiatrist two days after visiting the bakery. 

Dr. Rosenbaum regards him in the silence. But the lack of sound was not foreign in their sessions. 

T’Challa tells her about The Voice. He waits. 

“T’Challa, I’m afraid what you’re describing is schizophrenia,” she says calmly. 

In other circumstances, he would try to accept this information. He respects anyone dealing with mental illness, so he doesn’t frown as if he were pronounced a monster. But somehow, his situation feels different. 

_Heated thoughts intrude at the worst moment._

_He imagines himself tangled in sheets while wrapped around James. Rolling across his bed and ripping off said sheets seeking to cool their overheated skin. Indulging in the exquisite slide of James’ body over his. Nibbling his rosy lips with increasingly more pressure. Poised between sucking it into his mouth and breaking the skin._

_T’Challa fidgets in the loveseat._

Being visibly aroused would be odd right now. 

_Beads of sweat are forming around his temples. The air in the room is very chilly to compensate for the heat outside._

_T’Challa desperately wants to leave._

More silence. 

“If anything changes, you come see me immediately. Make sure you have your safety plan in place” she offers. 

They have discussed his suicidal thoughts in the past. These words are comforting, but not new.

“I won’t write any prescriptions right now, but I do think you should take time off,” she finishes. 

‘Have I taken time off of work?’ he asks himself. 

No is the only answer he has. 

“Time off. Okay,” T’Challa says. 

“Okay,” she echoes.


	4. Chapter 4

Mack kneads dough as if it personally offends him. 

His flour doused knuckles press into the dough with unyielding pressure. 

Bucky looks on and decides to save it. 

Pale hands come into view and break his frustrated trance. Mack stills with Bucky’s hands over his. Silvery-blue eyes imploring while hands subtly slide the dough away from Mack’s tight grasp. 

Mack sighs. His shoulders seem to deflate some time after. 

“What d’you think of Mr. Forbes Richest?” Bucky asks. 

“What do I think?” Mack asks as if he doesn’t understand. 

Bucky gives a look that says ‘I call bullshit’. 

He playfully tosses flour at Mack’s face. Mack smiles. 

“I don’t know. I only talked to him to tell him off,” Mack replies. 

“He was talking about the business...and the debt,” Bucky trails off.

Mack nods knowingly. His deep brown eyes bore into Bucky’s. 

Bucky is strongly considering the offer. He thinks, ‘if we don’t have to go it alone, why should we?’

“But we’re not going it alone,” Mack says as if telepathic. 

“You know you’re not alone in this right?” Mack asks. 

“Jeez, Mack, don’t sound like that,” Bucky says. 

From P.S. 112 to MIT, they’ve always been there for each other. Bucky wouldn’t insult him like that. 

Mack’s gaze settles like a warm weight on his skin. A familiar ache rises in his chest. 

He always has Mack. But Mack always has him. 

But that’s the problem. 

He huffs a laugh. 

“JB,” Mack starts, “Just be careful. Okay? You’re not the only one involved if this goes south,” he finishes. 

Bucky patiently smooths the dough with a rolling pin. 

He thinks of T’Challa. He doesn’t deny it. 

\------------

A few blocks north, Daisy hoses off the sidewalk around 2 o’clock. She narrowly misses dousing a pair of pumps that cost more than her overhead. 

She hastily pulls out her earbuds. 

“Oh god,” she says. 

The woman looks unruffled. The redhead shakes her head and continues on with her handsomely dressed companion. 

Daisy can only smile awkwardly and roll her eyes at herself. 

She goes back into her antique shop to the finish the code she’s working on. 

\-------------

Pepper sighs for the fifth time in 10 minutes. 

Rhodey just smiles. 

“What’s going on with work?” he asks. 

He knows it’s work. Pep isn’t prone to excessive sighing. 

“Well, where to start,” she starts. 

They consider the silence as they exchange a look. 

“So, I’m working with an author. I’ve admired her for some time now. Beautiful prose. Such a wordsmith. She doesn’t deal in filler. Every word is important. But,”

“But,” Rhodey coaxes with a small smile. 

“Doubleday needs something by September. She’s barely kept in contact. Plus----she just----lost her only son. There was a melancholy beauty to her work before but now,” Pepper breaks off.

She doesn’t lose her composure in public. Plus, Miriam’s grief isn’t about her. 

“You remember Sokovia? Two years ago,” Pepper asks.  
“Of course,” Rhodey says. 

Rhodey was running interference. He’s attended more U.S. Senate hearings than he would like. 

‘Why didn’t the new President act? The nearest USAF base was only a few miles away’ the press accused. 

The assassination of President Ellis. 

The Grand Central attack.

A chain of earthquakes in the Mediterranean. 

More goddamn earthquakes that, of course, caused tsunamis in the Pacific. 

Political regimes falling overnight. 

The diplomatic nightmares that ensued. 

Pepper respects the heavy silence that follows. 

“Well, her son died during the U.L.T.R.O.N. attack,” she says. 

The Unilateral Tele-Ranger Offense Network was an experimental program initiated by Defense Secretary Alexander Pierce with the help of Stark tech. 

Well, with Hiroshima and Nagasaki under our belt, that traitor Pierce thought that creating Skynet would protect the greater good. 

‘Twenty-sixteen was a shit show’ Rhodey thinks bitterly.

“Well, Pep, all I can say is give her space and prod gently. When that doesn’t work, just be matter-of-fact. When my dad passed, I was numb at first. Had to be---to function while making arrangements and looking over dad’s estate. Then I was crying non-stop….but everyone’s different,” Rhodey finishes with a shrug.

Pepper considers his words. 

\-----------

T’Challa wakes to a world no longer spinning carefully in his orbit. 

His father’s watch suddenly stopped the evening of the twenty-seventh. 

The morning of the twenty-eighth found him stumbling out of bed at 12 minutes past one.  
His alarm clock also gave up the ghost. 

T’Challa had been late for anything exactly three times in his life (not counting events out of his control, of course). 

His Tesla will not start. He lets his head fall into his palms behind the wheel. 

T’Challa’s stomach loudly protested its lack of breakfast. Plus, he felt a mounting headache. 

He did manage to get a tall Americano and a cheese danish. His stomach was grateful. 

However, his luck was not turning. 

“Really?” he exclaimed at the sky. 

T’Challa has learned to ignore the curious looks of passersby when he shouts at The Voice. 

A passing bike messenger jolts him while flagging a cab. His coffee spilled over his favorite Hermes tie. T’Challa slips it from his neck with gritted teeth. 

Fortunately, he keeps spare shirts in his desk at the office. 

He is mired in the inexplicable. 

‘Fuck this’ T’Challa thinks bitterly. 

\---------------

Daisy puts down the soldering gun when she hears the familiar chime of a new customer. 

She strips off her gloves and protective glasses. 

Daisy pulls on her leather Balmain jacket. It was a small ransom at a sample sale, but it dresses up the T-shirt she’s been wearing for two days. Judge if you want. Fashion comes in last when she’s in flow. 

She finds herself intrigued by the handsome, but stoic exec staring at the Fenders on the wall.

“Hey, welcome to Quake,” she greets with a smile. 

“Good afternoon,” T’Challa replies with a smooth tone.

 _They regard each other in silence. The pair does not expect what they’re seeing._

_T’Challa peers around the eclectic little shop._

Guitars. Gadgets. Vinyl albums. Clothing. Comic books. 

“I hear that you’re good with sensitive tech,” T’Challa says. 

“Hmmm...yes. What do you need?” Daisy replies.

_T’Challa motions to a glass display case with a velvet pad and loupe on top. He opens the leather watch box, removes his father’s watch, and places it in her upturned palm._

_She examines the watch beneath the light. Daisy finds the piece surprisingly lightweight for its substantial look. She gives T’Challa a questioning look._

“Vibranium,” he answers simply. 

“Ah,” she says under her breath. 

Daisy hasn’t held anything so precious in her line of work yet. She turns it over. The caseback is transparent.

‘Sapphire crystal---like the face---probably’ she thinks.

“What’s the problem?” she inquires. 

“Well, it runs on a proprietary Wakandan movement and last night it simply stopped,” T’Challa says.

At this, Daisy looks up sharply. His statement makes no sense. Only nuclear clocks keep better time. No one has been able to replicate the movement. 

“Can’t you get a Wakandan watchmaker to look at this?” Daisy asks.

“I would, but I have important matters to attend to here. I cannot take a 15-hour flight to my home country,” T’Challa says with a smile. 

_Of course, “important matters” meant his next meeting with one James Barnes._

T’Challa ignores The Voice. 

“Well, I’ll try to look at it, but I’m gonna need info that can’t be found on Google or the darkweb,” Daisy says with a lopsided smile. 

_T’Challa smiles at the young woman. He is thoroughly charmed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very proud of my Ultron acronym. :D
> 
> Also, don't think about Bucky and Mack pining for each other while being ridiculously in love in high school and then Finally getting their shit together in college and being the cutest couple. Don't think about them while listening to Corinne Bailey Rae either. 
> 
> (if you're not stupidly romantic like I am, of course you are, you're here)
> 
> Please leave a comment. I love comments.


	5. Chapter 5

_Tonight there are tears._

_Rivulets of salt slide over the bridge of his nose and pool in the pillow beneath his cheek. The pervasive loneliness he stuffs down during the day is making itself felt now._

In Midtown, Miriam paces around her loft. Smoke plumes fill the humid night air.

Since Charlie left, she’s tried everything to fill the void.

A voracious hole that will not be sated.

Journaling, therapy, introspection, more journaling---and oh god---flipping through fucking self help books that suggest more of the former led to a dead end.

Miriam confided in a close friend, but they never had children nor the urge to give birth, so the loss she’s carrying---dragging---would be abstract at best.

So...she’s alone.

One husband in the ground for 15 years with his son resting beside him in the placid plot in upstate New York.

Miriam sits before the typewriter and just stares at the blank page.

_T’Challa turns uneasily atop absurdly expensive sheets. He immediately turns to his tabulations like a prayer and hopes to tamp down the ache._

_He realizes that sleep is moot and so he walks to his library._

_His fingers stroke the edges of the most visited bookshelf. He taps worn spines as he looks for his favorite volume._

_T’Challa slips Their Eyes Were Watching God from the shelf and begins to read_.  
\-------------

Bucky feels hemmed in by the thick droplets hanging in the air. His skin is pulled taut, hot with a flush and tender to the touch.

~~~

_When James opens his eyes, he’s in his childhood bedroom._

_He’s as small as the narrow and back-achingly rigid twin bed where he sleeps._

_His thoughts have taken on a tone he doesn’t recognize, so he must be dreaming._

_The gaping hole in the corner of the room brings the looming oak tree out front into view. Thick mist covers everything but suddenly the imposing silhouette of his father stands at the end of his bed._

_James hears quiet whirring and ticking like the inside of a machine yet such sounds don’t fit the scene before him._

_Without warning, his father starts screaming while his flat blue eyes squint with disdain._

_Nothing new there._

_“LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE,” Bucky screams back._

_The sandy haired man disintegrates like angry beads of water falling on a hot skillet._

_The fog dissipates as night descends. A warm breeze brings gentle floral notes with the welcome smokiness of his mother’s small kitchen._

~~~

James sighs upon waking. The dream has followed him from elementary school while remaining unchanged until last night.

He reaches for his phone.

3:30 a.m.

Bucky scrolls through his recent contacts and taps the green icon beneath the familiar name.

“Hello,” comes the sleepy, resounding tone on the other end.

A beat of silence.

He feels foolish and exposed.

“Was it the dream again?” Mack inquires gently.

“...Yeah,” Bucky rasps out.

“Hmm. Be there in 20,” Mack says.

James closes his eyes as he hangs up.

Sometime later, he’s entwined with a human furnace. He thanks some vague idea of a higher power that this never feels weird.

Mack strokes down the pink ridges of his left shoulder to the tip of his remaining arm and up to the nape of his neck.

Strokes made real by the callused palms of a gearhead-slash-baker gliding over his fine body hair.

Bucky doesn’t like to be touched that often. Especially _**there.**_

Spotty sensitivity plus unwanted touch and people’s misgivings about his body are more than he needs during daylight hours.

But here….he’s safe. Sacred. In the reverent touch that lulls him to sleep.

He needs this. Mack needs this too.

\---------

T’Challa fades into sleep against his wishes in the wing back chair as the book slides from his grasp.

The crick in his neck screams at him.

_Distant chimes break through the haze of slow waking._

He moves toward the bedroom where he plugged in his phone.

_**J. Barnes** lights up the screen._

_His eagerness causes the phone to slide around in his palms more than usual. Almost dropping it, he slides the green icon to answer it._

_“Good afternoon, T’Challa speaking,” he says coolly._

_T’challa feels proud that his voice is steady._

“Good afternoon, this is James Barnes from Playground Bakery,” James says a bit unsteadily.

_T’Challa stays silent as if searching his memory._

_Perhaps he could forget such a name in a legion of Jameses. However, with this James’ eyes---definitely not._

“Ah, yes. What were you considering?” T’Challa inquires.

“I’m sorry, I’m a little surprised. Thought I’d get an assistant. I’d like to set up a meeting soon---or whenever you’re available,” Bucky replies.

_The last statement came out in a rush and T’Challa feels infinitely pleased that James’ fine feathers are ruffled._

_T’Challa smiles._

“I’m available for lunch this Thursday. It’s on me. Wear a nice shirt,” T’Challa says.

“All right. I’ll meet you at the bakery,” Bucky finishes.

“I’ll pick you up around 11:30. Good-bye James,” he replies in a tone that’s a touch sultry.

\-----------

Bucky finds himself agonizing over what shirt to wear.

He’s been dressing himself for over two decades.

**One meeting has him doubting his ability to choose and to put on clothes.**

Mack leans in the doorway to survey the chaos.

A haphazard pile of button-downs are strewn across the bed while other shirts are going rogue as they slide from hangers clutching the dresser pulls.

_James groans at the sight of Mack’s glistening skin as he smiles into his mug in nothing but his old basketball shorts._

Why does his brain sound like their Contemporary Lit professor?

Bucky softly shakes his head. He’s already fucked up. Who’s he to question one more odd voice?

“Wear the navy blue one. For the obvious reasons,” Mack says calmly.

‘Uhhhhnnn’ Bucky thinks.

_He feels the hot flush sparking across the expanse of his cheekbones._

And the fucker just winks and saunters off more smoothly than anyone as beautiful as he is has a right to do.

_Of course, he puts on the navy shirt after he irons it._

He takes in his reflection.

_Bucky made a fine choice. All on his (ahem) own._


	6. Chapter 6

James Rhodes sprawls across the deep, L-shaped couch thinking about to how to approach T’Challa’s _delicate_ situation. 

Rhodey prides himself on living as a realist. 

At first, he wanted to attribute his friend’s confession to young-CEO-stress and lengthy grief. 

But T’Challa has never been prone to theatrics. He wasn’t **that type of billionaire**. 

In that moment, he decides to take the confession at face value. 

Rhodey decides to set up a meeting with an old friend at NYU. 

\---------------------

 _T’Challa hums a non-descript tune as he enters the restaurant._

The heat wave seems to have abated in time for his meeting with James. He couldn’t be any more pleased. 

_He sits in a booth on the second floor reserved for men of the world such as him._

_Movement in his periphery brings him back to the present._

_James trails behind the hostess. T’Challa’s gaze roves over James’s body._

_James’s eyes appear deeper yet alight with something T’Challa longs to possess._

_The pair exchanges small yet warm smiles._

“Hello James,” T’Challa practically purrs.

“Hello to you as well,” Bucky replies. 

_James artfully keeps his composure._

In that moment, T’Challa tunes into the Voice with more interest. She seems keenly focused on James.

 _He withholds any damning blissful sighs._

_If his gaze ventures near longing territory, he makes himself detached with a careful mantra of “it’s just business.”_

_His lips are pursed ever so slightly in order to avoid being bitten._

_All these subtleties are signs that James is falling and falling hard._

“Would you like to leave?” T’Challa asks tentatively. 

“Uh…” Bucky starts, “Where would we be going exactly?” 

“There’s an exhibit of one of my favorite photographer’s downtown,” T’Challa says. 

“Oh, um, okay,” Bucky replies. 

‘Real fuckin’ smooth Barnes’ Bucky thinks. 

T’Challa’s answering grin opens his entire face. 

\-----------------------

 _Throughout the twenty minute car ride, T’Challa takes not-so-furtive glances at James._

_He’s intrigued by the light throwing fine cheekbones into relief. His weak attempt at subtlety gets him caught._

_Telltale buzzing distracts T’Challa from admiring James’s gradually pinking skin._

==================================================  
Rhodey: I have an idea about your little problem

TC: Ah, so I’m not delusional anymore

Rhodey: I never thought that  
Shut up and hear me out

TC: [received at 1:45pm]

Rhodey: Okay. That’s how it is. 

Anyway, a friend of mine is a Lit professor at NYU.  
Could help you work through this narrator’s motives 

TC: Send me his contact info  
I’ll get back to you  
…

Thanks by the way  
================================================== 

T’Challa and Bucky wind through the dimly lit gallery with its slate gray walls. 

_The exhibit begins with sedate but elegant still lives._

_As they delve deeper into the building, the photos build upon their sensuality._

_Then, the erotic becomes the only context._

_Bare skin covered in crisscrossed rope_

_Fingers pressing into pliant fat and flesh_

_Lips parted as if gasping for air_

_Eyes pleading for release or surrender_

_James feels only brave enough to look at T’Challa from the corner of his eye._

_T’Challa is staring._

_Bucky feels his resolve weakening._

_He finds courage to say his next words._

“Today was great, but I have to be heading back,” Bucky says in a hushed tone. 

_James wonders when T’Challa became so close. They are almost nose to nose._

_He swallows, but his throat is drier than usual._

“So soon?” T’Challa whispers back. 

_The man is so close that his breath caresses the side of James’s face._

_James meant to reply in a detached manner befitting the relation---partnership really---that’s developing._

_But he’s weak. He hasn’t been kissed in so long._

_So he lets T’Challa taste the silence between them._

_As well as the soft, barely audible moans that follow after._

_James melds into the warmth of T’Challa’s palm as his thumb caresses his cheek._

_He’s giving way._

_He’s gossamer._

_He’s gone._

_**God help him.** _

‘Mack did warn him about this blowing up.’ 

_‘But…’_

_‘He just wants…’_

_‘Can’t he have this one good thing?’_

“You can have anything,” T’Challa replies.

_Judging by James’s bitten off moan, he must have said that out loud._

___He feels the gathering eyes of an impromptu audience._ _ _

___T’Challa regrets nothing._ _ _

__\----------------------_ _

___T’Challa drops James off at his apartment._ _ _

___James reluctantly lets his fingers slip from his grasp._ _ _

___They exchange a private smile while their eyes make silent promises._ _ _

___T’Challa caresses the rosy skin he’s fond of once more and turns back to his town car._ _ _

___T’Challa smiles to himself as he passes the pads of his fingers over his lips._ _ _

___Little did he know, James’s kiss will be the precipice over which he meets his untimely end._ _ _

__T’Challa laughs at the Voice._ _

__Imagine that. He’s a romantic._ _

__\-------------------------  
Matrimonial fever rules June, so Bucky needs to live at the _Playground_. _ _

__They hired several assistants and a part-time _sous-chef_ to handle the demand for acres of petit fours, pastries and cakes._ _

__Today, JB sets his big, pale blue eyes on Mack in order to get him to run an errand._ _

__When JB hands off the bright yellow box of treats along with a messy file box, Mack is perplexed to say the least._ _

__His face must broadcast confusion because JB smiles sweetly in a way that has always thrown him off kilter._ _

“Could you drop those off at T’Challa’s office?” JB asks. 

Mack remains stonily silent. 

“Mack…” Bucky starts. 

“You baking for him now?” he replies. 

“Ugh, please Mack, it’s basic hospitality. Thanks-for-lunch, yadda yadda,” Bucky says. 

“Right,” Mack says.

He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

He obviously wasn’t successful. 

“You don’t get to act like this. I’m here. I’ve always been here. You----” Bucky says in a deadly tone. 

Mack raises his hands in surrender as his face becomes contrite instantly. 

“As your _business partner_ , I’m allowed to tell you not to piss where you eat. I’ll be back,” Mack says as he leaves abruptly. 

\---------------------------  
Mack has to smile at the people who inevitably get jostled and crash into him in the large mass of bodies in the subway car. 

Eventually, he makes it to T’Challa’s building. 

The elevator ride is uneventful. 

Mack is so intent on his purpose that he misses the small crowd of men and women, standing too close, becoming pleasantly flustered in his presence.

Of course, he smiles politely again at the smaller-statured people he has to meander around to exit. 

\--------------------------  
T’Challa eagerly looked forward to his 10:30 appointment. 

His assistant’s clear voice announces the arrival.

T’Challa can’t stop the grin splitting his face.

It slowly fades.

“Mr. Mackenzie, what a pleasant surprise,” T’Challa greets.

“Good morning to you too,” Mack replies sarcastically.

T’Challa waits Mack out. 

Silence. 

The silence grows.

“We’ve been overrun. Wedding season. JB wanted me to drop these off,” Mack says. 

“Ah,” T’Challa says lamely.

He takes in the curious bright yellow box that seems intent on collapsing on itself. Then, he surveys the confusing jumble of paperwork in the file box.

The former box smells delicious, but….it’s seen better days. This morning perhaps.

“What happened?” T’Challa asks tentatively.

"Oh you know how it is...got a little crushed. Barely got through the doors to catch the train here. JB sends his regards," Mack says coolly. 

T'Challa gives the tall man a tight smile.

“Thank James for me. Thank you for bringing these,” T’Challa says warmly.

Mack nods in acknowledgment and leaves on silent feet. 

The moment was so ridiculous that T’Challa had to chuckle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mack's middle name is Petty. 
> 
> I'm really proud of this chapter and I hope you like it. 
> 
> Leave a comment? Pretty please? :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For old friends and new friends like azande who believe in the quality of my trash.

Ella Fitzgerald's "Summertime" filtered through the tiny third floor walk up from the record player nestled by the window. 

The two men sat entwined in the overstuffed loveseat while taking in the view of the neighboring brick wall. 

Stripped down to their underwear, the pair could only stand the humidity with less clothing. 

Bucky turned to take in the dozing man beside him. 

He ran the silver tips of his hand over the planes of T'Challa's face. Bucky had done so several times over the course of the long weekend. 

T'Challa came over Thursday evening to watch a Nova documentary and simply never left. 

So, they lay soaking in the sliver of light seeping through Bucky's window. 

A small smile crept onto T'Challa' s lips. 

"You know…this may be a conflict of interest," Bucky says.

"What? This?" T'Challa says innocently. 

Bucky huffs a laugh.

"I'm honoring my duty as a silent partner. So, here I am, being  _ silent, _ " T'Challa says.

"Oh my god," Bucky says as he tickles T'Challa. 

His sofa-mate jolts when his fingertips wiggle across his underarms and his sides. 

They slide off the loveseat in a glorious heap. 

_ James knows.  _

_ He's definitely falling in love. _

_ \------------------- _

_ Professor Nicholas J. Fury reclines in his office.  _

_ He sips the bitter brew, screws up his face, and strides to the mini-fridge to grab the creamer.  _

He surveys his Google calendar while waiting patiently for his 8:30 to show up.

The rapping of knuckles signals their arrival.

Professor Fury ushers T’Challa into the seat across from his desk. 

The older man notes the stress that T’Challa is trying to keep carefully hidden. 

Fists wound tightly. 

Pinched face complete with pursed lips. 

Stiffly set shoulders. 

T’Challa’s regal bearing has become more tense as if poised for a fight.

“Good morning, Professor Fury,” T’Challa greets.  

“I hear you have a peculiar situation,” Professor Fury says matter-of-factly. 

T’Challa’s mouth morphs into a bitter upturn. 

“Yes....A woman is narrating my life. I need it to stop or….to be resolved,” T’Challa says on a sigh. 

“Hmmm,” Nick replies as he sips coffee. 

T’Challa waits.

“Well, do you have an idea of the narrator’s motives?” Nick asks. 

The younger man simply shrugs. 

“All right, I need to get a feel for what kind of narrative you’re in,” Nick says.

“Yes. Anything,” T’Challa answers hastily. 

“I assume your routine has changed somewhat,” Nick says. 

A nod. 

“Are you great at anything?”

“Mathematics. I’m a CEO of a multi-billion dollar firm,” T’Challa says with a shrug.

“Do you feel called by God or a Higher Power for an important purpose?”

“Not really. I just like helping others…” T’Challa says. 

“Are you a figure of controversy-slash-renown in your community?” 

“Hmm, define community,” T’Challa replies. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Nick says lowly. 

“Are you fleeing an abusive marriage and seeking true love and intimacy ?” 

“I’ve never been married, but the second part is true I suppose,” T’Challa replies. 

“Are you romancing a royal with vivid tales in order to prevent your execution?” 

“No…” 

“Did you grow up poor and desperately desire wealth, fame, and fortune?” Nick asks in a deadpan tone. 

T’Challa smiles and shakes his head no. 

“Are you keeping any secrets that could potentially ruin the prosperity in your life---besides the Unwanted Narrator?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re not in an ‘80’s glamour novel. Less chance of you being ruined by a deadly secret,” Nick replies. 

“Have you experienced the pain of watching your beloved marry a sibling or rival?” 

“No---these are all very specific,” T’Challa says dubiously. 

“In less than 10 minutes, I’ve ruled out any religious texts, ancient myths, _One Thousand and One Nights_ , _Their Eyes Were Watching God_ , _Portrait in Sepia_ , or _Like Water for Chocolate_ ,” Nick says. 

“Also, I would give those a read if you haven’t already,” Nick offers. 

“Of course, but how does this help me?” T’Challa asks. 

“The fastest way to know what story you’re in is to know which ones you’re not. So let’s continue,” Nick says softly. 

They chat well into the 10 o’clock hour. 

“Has she said anything that stands out?”

“She said ‘Little did he know, that James’s kiss would be the precipice over which T’Challa finds his untimely end’ or something to that effect,” T’Challa says. 

“Could be innocent purple prose or---casually ominous as it usually is,” Nick replies.

T’Challa suddenly looks solemn. 

“You could’ve led with  **Little did he know** ,” Nick starts, “I’ve taught seminars and written a dissertation on  **Little did he know** .”

Nick sighs heavily. He eyes the young man before him. 

T’Challa turns soft eyes on him and suddenly Mr. Big Shot-CEO looks so terribly young.   

“Go about your life as normally as possible. Tally special events as either Comedy or Tragedy. Come see me next Wednesday---actually you could be dead by then---we’ll meet on Monday at 8 a.m.,” Nick says.   

The men shake hands. 

“Son, it’s gonna be okay,” he says in his gentlest voice. 

T’Challa nods and parts with a thank you. 

\--------------------------

Miriam lies on her back across the minimal black desk. 

Pepper lay belly first on the floor, bent at the knees with her ankles crossed.

She jots phrases or words on  **white** index cards. 

Miriam was silently offended by the neon-colored pack she used during the first week. 

“Smoke,” Pepper begins. 

“Suffocation,” Miriam answers. 

“Bay”

“Drowning”

“Steps…”

“In front of a train”

“Are you feeling a spark?” Pepper asks hopefully.

“No,” Miriam replies. 

Pepper remains silent. She won’t take the bait today. 

“How about we take a field trip? Maybe a change of scenery will do your muse some good,” Pepper says with a smile.

The two women visit a county morgue with the help of Pepper’s connections. 

Miriam finds the already deceased uninspiring. 

They visit the intensive care unit. Her friend Claire turns a blind eye. 

Miriam surveys the people with detached indifference. 

“I couldn’t possibly injure him in a fire. He’s too well protected for that to happen,” Miriam says. 

They move into the hospital parking lot and find an empty bench. 

Pepper opens a yellow umbrella to shield them from the onslaught of curious summer rain. 

Miriam lights a cigarette. 

She watches the whorls of smoke dance in front of her. 

A cyclist whips through the rain while switching in and out of the bike lane. 

Cars blow their horns as the pedestrians mill about unbothered. 

The cyclist nearly misses a glancing blow from a rumbling truck. 

Miriam takes another drag and throws the butt into a nearby puddle. 

The woman rises abruptly and forces Pepper to follow. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Here's a chapter that took forever to come together. 
> 
> Okay, thanks to everyone who still cares about this (azande and my sugar pea)
> 
> The last chapter will be an epilogue. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> :D

T'Challa stared at the scene before him for indeterminate minutes.

He made no sound. 

He only heard the patter of droplets on hardwood, the wooshing of leveling puddles and the squish of rather murky water seeping into his Italian suede loafers. 

T'Challa returned home after leaving James' apartment to find a pond amid the modern furniture in his living room. 

The man reached for the rose gold phone wading in a puddle beside the demilune table in the entry. 

Definitely tragic. 

He sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes. 

He feels comfortable doing so with his mother's tutting and Shuri's disapproval several thousand miles away. 

The man can only glare at the gaping hole in his kitchen wall and exit the apartment as quietly as he entered. 

The splashing ruins the effect. 

\--------------------

As the door swings open, T'Challa is greeted with James' pleasantly surprised face framed by quizzical brows.

James immediately lets him in. 

"Not that I don't mind seeing you whenever but," James trails off.

"Babe, why are you in flip flops?" he asks.

James waits. T'Challa looks uncharacteristically shaken. 

"There was a flood," T'Challa says.

He's more eloquent than this. 

"In my apartment," he finishes. 

Bucky's lips morph into a shocked 'O'.

T'Challa misinterprets James’ silence once he comes out of his stupor. 

"I shouldn't have assumed---I'll book a hotel," T'Challa says in a rush. 

Bucky swiftly grabs his arm then slides his palm into T'Challa's. 

"Hey---wait. You know you can stay with me, right? I'm not kickin' you out," James says with a small smile. 

T'Challa relaxes his shoulders and exhales. 

As he laid his head upon Bucky's odd As-Seen-On-TV pillow, he sighed contentedly. 

_Fate wasn't done with him yet._

T'Challa blinks his eyes open and rolls his face into the pillow with a groan. 

\---------------------

A spray of brick dust wakes him. 

He blinks several times. 

'Maybe the dust motes are thicker here because Bucky doesn't really clean' he thinks. 

He can't judge. He hears things. 

The whir and clunk of heavy machinery growing louder gives him pause. 

A thicker cloud of dust shakes free from the wall he's facing. 

He climbs from bed and violently rouses James behind him.

"Oy," James mumbles. 

"What fuckin' time is it? I love you but it's Saturday. Playground's closed to honor my bubbe's wishes---" James says. 

T'Challa shoves James off the other side of the bed before he can finish his rant. 

He peers over the bed beside James while ignoring his partner’s incredulous expression. 

Bucky opens his mouth to tell him off but the flying bricks steal his attention. 

The sunlight filtering in from the gaping hole bends around the wrecking ball to cast an ominous shadow. 

T'Challa feels the icy rage building.

He stands right in front of the hole as if daring the crane operator to continue. 

The foreman shouts for the operator to stop. 

He does, of course.

"Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this?" T'Challa says in a lowered tone.

"Suppos'to tear this one down. Luxury condos goin' up," the foreman answers. 

"Hmm...why was I not notified?" T'Challa asks.

"Letters were sent out last month. You own the building or somethin'?" the foreman chuckles.

"I do. You'll hear from my lawyer, Ms. Walters," T'Challa says with a final turn. 

His moment is interrupted by James' withering glare. 

"You bought my building," Bucky states rather than asks. 

T'Challa tries to explain but nothing comes out. 

He gestures to the scene behind him, but James seems unconcerned. 

"All right big shot, you're buying brunch *and* dinner," Bucky says as they walk to the bathroom. 

\---------------------

Pepper lets out an astonished whistle in the empty apartment. 

She thumbs through the new manuscript pages. 

Miriam strolls through the front door with a carton of cigarettes, a bouquet of blackened-purple tulips and a bottle of her favorite vodka.

Pep pushes her glasses back up her nose as she considers her approach. 

"Miriam," she begins, "don't you think the wrecking ball is a little---heavy handed?" 

"It's brilliant," Miriam answers with finality. 

"Okay," Pep says resignedly. 

Miriam walks across the room to unlatch a window and light a fresh cigarette. 

Silence reigns for a few moments. 

"What do you want for dinner?" Miriam offers.

"I'm sorry?" Pep asks.

Miriam never repeats herself. 

"I make a mean beef and dumpling stew," Miriam says. 

Pepper smiles. 

"I would love to join you for dinner," she replies. 

\----------------------

A few days later, T'Challa rapped gently on Professor Fury's door. 

"Come in," Nick says through the door. 

T'Challa entered looking as world weary as always. 

"I sense that there have been new developments," Nick says.

T'Challa nods. 

"So, what kind of story are you in?" Nick asks.

"A comedy, of sorts, perhaps, if you have a sick sense of humor," T'Challa replies. 

He relays his calamities. 

"That's messed up," Nick says. 

"That's all? Don't have something more enlightening to add?" T'Challa says. 

"The narrator also said 'Fate wasn't done with him yet'," he adds.

Nick hums noncommittally. 

The muffled sound of the small TV playing the Book Channel snags T’Challa’s ear. 

“Could you turn that up?” T’Challa asks. 

He finds himself looking over the author in her elegant cocoon coat discussing her upcoming novel. 

T’Challa sits transfixed.

“That’s her,” he says in low voice.

“Her? The narrator? You’re sure?” Nick replies. 

“Yes,” T’Challa says matter-of-factly. 

“Damn,” Fury says lowly. 

“What does that mean?” T’Challa asks. 

“Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but that’s Miriam Spencer,” Nick pauses, “she kills all of her protagonists.” 

T’Challa says nothing. 

“From what you’ve told me, that’s you,” Nick finishes. 

T’Challa nods decisively. He strides toward Professor Fury’s desk and holds out his hand to shake. 

‘Always a gentleman’ Nick thinks woefully. 

They shake. 

Then, Nick clasps the young man’s hands between his. 

“I’m really sorry son,” Nick says. 

T’Challa cannot bear to look at him. 

“The only thing I can tell you is don’t waste what time you have left,” the older man says. 

“Thank you. For helping me. Believing me,” T’Challa says with a grim finality.

\----------------------- 

James playfully slaps his hand away from the loaf cooling on the counter. 

"That's Mack's _challah_ bread. Yours is in the bread box where it always is," Bucky says. 

T'Challa smiles.

His smile takes on a bitter edge when James isn’t looking. 

“You all right babe?” Bucky asks.

“I am fine,” T’Challa says. 

“You’re just quiet. You’re *always* quiet, I know. But it’s a little different. You can talk to me, you know” James says. 

T’Challa wants to say ‘I know’ but he cannot share this with James. 

Now that he knows that these moments with James will be few, T’Challa just drinks him in. 

The flush of his cheeks.

His freckles. 

His bright eyes while baking. 

His tinkling laughter.

T’Challa doesn’t notice moving from his perch on the barstool. 

Bucky stops slicing the loaf before him when he notices T’Challa getting closer. 

He leans toward James to plainly telegraph his intention. 

James nods.

T’Challa is grateful. 

At first, he merely brushes his lips against James’. 

T’Challa’s pauses to bend his head toward the crook of James’ neck. 

Raising flour. Slightly sweet soap. Clean sweat. 

James lets out a low moan. 

He deepens the kiss as their lips begin a languid slide. 

T’Challa pulls the strings of his apron and lets it fall. 

James kisses along his jaw before coming back to his chin. 

Then, he sweetly pecks the tip of T’Challa’s nose. 

A smile. James kisses that too. 

They stand in James’ tiny apartment with their foreheads pressed together breathing each other in. 

“I have to head back to work. I put off some reports for ‘next time’. Today is ‘next time’ I’m afraid,” T’Challa says with a small smile. 

“Okay, but hurry back,” James says. 

“I will,” T’Challa says. 

\-----------------------  
He kisses James goodbye. 

The last kisses are always the sweetest. 

In memory, at least. 

In reality, it was bittersweet like every other final moment. 

At the crosswalk, he sees the signal flicker into 'WALK'. 

Still high on the last moment with his lover, he steps into the street with neither a glance left nor right. 

Of course, he hears the telltale chime of the bell too late. 

He collides with the bike messenger.   
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

T'Challa is tossed before the oncoming bus he couldn't notice. 

The slam throws him back. 

His skull thuds against the sun-bleached pavement. 

Blood trickles from his nose. 

He feels himself fading into something like sleep. 

All the smiling faces he's loved pass before him. 

His mother with her soft floral perfume.

His father's pleased face as he strokes his cheek. 

Shuri's head thrown back in laughter with a grin full of teeth. 

Sam's sweet gap-toothed grin by a food truck. 

Rhodey's small smile when he's trying not to laugh. 

And James. 

Oh. 

James. 

T'Challa notices a swelling crowd around him before his eyes slip closed. 

'I'm so sorry' his mind supplies. 

The phone in his left pocket lights up with "D. Johnson" but he cannot answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments keep me alive, warm and fed :D


	9. Epilogue

Miriam stops smoking.

Her itching fingers will need to be satisfied with the click and slide of knitting needles.

Meanwhile, her lips remained pursed from annoyance and fresh waves of grief.

~~~~~~

_The Colonel strides toward the door and raps three times._

_She hears the shuffle and smack of Pepper dropping those ridiculous index cards on the table._

_“Rhodey,” Pepper says._

_“Hey Pep. I know this is weird, but it’s important that I speak with Ms. Spencer,” Rhodey says._

_Pepper steps aside to let the man come into view._

_“You have a visitor,” Pepper says._

_Miriam wants to clutch her chest, but she refrains. She’s not keen on dramatics._

_Her eyes do widen perceptively as she takes him in._

_“Hello, I’m Colonel James Rhodes, ma’am. This is going to sound odd, but…”_

_“I know. Sit down,” Miriam says._

_Rhodey sits in the lone chair in the loft. Another chair appears._

_“Coffee? Tea? Vodka might be best for this conversation,” Miriam says._

_Rhodey smiles tightly._

_He lays the tale bare._

_Miriam expected some kind of heaviness, but there’s nothing._

_Shock is slowly coming to the fore of her mind._

_Sadness, on the other hand, usually takes its sweet-ass time._

_She won’t be ready._

_~~~~~~_

Miriam stares into the dark of her bedroom.

Names of the dead drown her mind in the daytime.

Vivid memories of their cruel ends choke her at night.

There’s not enough alcohol to mute their voices.

So she doesn’t drink after that either.

.

.

.

.

.

She spares him.

He’s too bright and alive and real in Rhodey’s eyes to be laid to rest with her past imaginings.

\----------

James hovers.

T’Challa can barely open his eyes in the bright room, but he knows that his lover is **hovering**.

James’ zesty shampoo cuts through the antiseptic scent clinging to every corner.

“Babe,” James whispers.

T’Challa manages an affirmative grunt.

James smiles.  

He feels James caressing the planes of his face and stopping at the bandages wrapped around his crown.

T’Challa opens his eyes fully.

The wetness clinging to James’ lashes shake him.

“Hey,” Bucky says with false cheer.

T’Challa blinks his salutation.

Bucky starts kissing his face with fervor.

“I didn’t know where you were---Called the office---Assistant said you left. Then I left you like a zillion texts like the **cling-on** that I am. Then I actually **called** , but you didn’t…” Bucky says in one pained breath.

“Breathe darling,” T’Challa whispers.

Bucky inhales like a man rising from the ocean.

Bucky presses his ear to T’Challa’s chest.

He lulls himself with the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

\----------

Daisy arrives the next day.

She places a burgundy leather box beside the tray of unsavory food Bucky keeps trying to spoon him.

“You fixed it,” T’Challa says.

Daisy nods.

“Thank you,” he says.

Daisy sits with him.

They talk geo-politics until the sun dips below the steel and concrete horizon.

\-----------

T’Challa feels the strain as he holds onto the parallel bars and takes tentative first steps.

Walking is simply different now.

T’Challa hovers between grateful, ecstatic, and little bit bitter.

Like 0.13 percent bitter.

He can’t complain too much.

T’Challa has James, his new family and **his life**.

He walks with a cane more often than not.

Longer days have him in his wheelchair.

He’s at peace with it.

\-----------

T’Challa takes his time climbing the stairs to Bucky’s apartment.

He taps the wine bottle in the crook of his arm.

T’Challa feels the presence of someone to his right.

It’s Miriam.

She gives him a warm smile.

He puts the bottle down to embrace her fully.

In him, she finds another son.

In her, he finds another mother with new wisdom.

He truly can’t complain.

\-------------

T’Challa sinks into the plastic fold-out chair next to Bucky’s on the roof.

Daisy steals his _iced tea_ and takes a long pull from his straw.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief and no trace of remorse.

Pepper empties the glass before Rhodey comes over to refill it.

Miriam is still locking horns with Pepper over the themes of _Wild Seed_.

Nick watches the exchange and lets out a resigned yet content sigh.

James giggles.

They share a well-worn look before Bucky slides his lips against his.

He and James part smiling.  

James’ fingers idly stroke the nape of his neck as they take in the sunset.

Mack smiles and squeezes his shoulder on his way back to the smoky grill.

T’Challa shakes his head and breathes deeply.

Finally.

He’s living his life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you to everyone who enjoyed this fic. 
> 
> I really appreciate your comments and kudos. 
> 
> They really did make me smile. :D


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